


less of an image and more of a thumbnail

by arashiyama (harukatenoh)



Category: World Trigger (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, One Shot Collection, POV Outsider, this is so self indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-02-28 10:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18754651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harukatenoh/pseuds/arashiyama
Summary: Arashiyama Jun, marvel in motion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay, before anything, know this: this fic is unbelievably self indulgent. like this is truly just the most self indulgent thing on earth. i cannot justify its existence to anybody apart from myself. this is the product of me snapping at some point in time and completely letting myself go. you've been warned.
> 
> i love arashiyama jun huh whats up with that
> 
> work title from thumbnail by louie zong

Popularity is a pointless concept. 

There are varying levels of it. It’s not a quality that really matters, because anybody can see that it’s subjective. It depends on the circles one runs in and the things one hears. On a campus this size, there’s no such thing as popularity, because nobody is going to hold that much repute among the twenty-thousand-something students.

That being said, Kie really doesn’t know how to handle the fact that the  _ objectively _ most popular person in the university is currently holding his hand.

“—you okay?” said objectively most popular person says again, which clues Kie in to the fact that he’s being spoken to.

Kie makes the terrible decision of looking behind him, where the objectively most popular person in the university stands, looking concerned.

Right. Concerned. Because Kie almost just stacked it down the stairwells after being shouldered aside by somebody in a rush. Almost, because instead of taking the very mortifying and possibly grievous-injury-causing fall down the stairs, somebody reached out a hand and caught him.

_ Arashiyama Jun _ reached out a hand and caught him.

“Yes,” Kie says, after a brief silence. 

Arashiyama is studying him with worried green eyes, a green that Kie is pretty sure will be haunting his dreams for the next month or so. He should probably say something else. Arashiyama is still holding his hand. 

“I’m cool,” he says, like somebody who is about as cool as an active volcano.

Arashiyama grins and makes no move whatsoever to remove his hand from Kie’s embarrassingly tight hold. His smile is dazzling. Kie considers himself a pretty staunch and unyielding guy, but,  _ wow _ . He would probably kick a puppy for that smile.

“You’re cool?” Arashiyama says, amused and pleased and relieved. He sounds a little like he’s teasing Kie, but he also sounds stupidly genuine.

Kie is not cool. Kie can feel heat rushing up his entire body, all accumulating in his fire-red cheeks. He’s the absolute opposite of cool. He nods.

“Yup,” he says, like an idiot. He can’t really focus with that gaze on him. It’s playful and bright and sincere and if it was anybody else Kie would either feel patronized or made fun of but instead it’s just—it’s just… 

Nice.

Arashiyama is so nice. 

“That’s good to hear,” Arashiyama says, his smile toning down a little— _ thank god _ —but still as lovely. Why is he still holding Kie’s hand? Has Kie entered some alternate dimension? Is this a fever dream his brain is creating because he had, in fact, stacked it down the stairs and this is to make his passing easier on him? 

Kie is so plagued by these thoughts that he decides he has to be the one to release Arashiyama’s hand, which he does with no small amount of regret.

Arashiyama seems surprised at the movement, and looks down at his hand, now hovering a bit away from Kie’s.

“Oh!” Arashiyama says, sounding apologetic. “Sorry, I didn’t notice I was still holding onto you,”

_ Don’t ever apologize for making this day the best of my life _ , Kie thinks, and almost says, but doesn’t out of a mix of self-preservation and terror.

Instead, he says “It’s fine, I liked it,” like an idiot. He can’t even begin to quantify how idiotic of a statement that was. So much for self-preservation and terror; his life is now apparently run by his gay thirst and solely that.

Arashiyama looks genuinely surprised at the words, as if he doesn’t know that he looks the way he looks and thus hasn’t come to expect this kind of reception, and it’s both the most irritating and endearing thing Kie’s ever seen.

“Oh,” Arashiyama says, his gaze flickering from Kie’s face to his own hand. “I’m… glad?”

There’s a spot of red on his cheeks. Irritating. Endearing. Kie feels himself blushing in response. He starts wishing, with absolute clarity, that he had just taken the fall down the stairs.

“Sorry,” he forces out, because he can’t bear to languish in the awkward silence that had developed after that. “I didn’t… I mean… that was weird to say. Sorry,”

Arashiyama, still looking a little pink, smiles and takes the hand that had just been holding Kie’s and runs it through his hair. A small part of Kie wonders how his hair stays back like that.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, yeah? I’m just glad you’re okay,” Arashiyama says in a very friendly, but resolutely distanced tone. It’s the politest and also subtlest rejection that Kie has ever heard in his life, much less had directed at him. He’s extremely impressed, and not even a little bit sad about it. The plight of the popular; it seems that Arashiyama  _ is _ pretty experienced in fielding those kinds of comments. 

Phrasing it like that makes Kie feel a little bad. Arashiyama probably deals with enough shit as is—not to mention the fact that he’s probably straight as hell—Kie should’ve had a little more impulse control.

No time to practice what you preach like the present, Kie thinks, so instead of blurting out an apology for grossly crossing boundaries with Arashiyama, he says sincerely “Thank you, by the way. Going down those stairs would not have been fun,’

Arashiyama grins at him again, bright and sunny. Prolonged exposure seems to have helped Kie somewhat, because the sight of it only makes him want to melt a little bit, instead of a lot. 

“You’re welcome,” Arashiyama says, “It’s not like I could just let you fall,”

Everybody else on the stairway had been content to do that, but Kie decides to not mention that. He supposes the whole point is that Arashiyama Jun is decidedly  _ not  _ everybody else.

“Oh!” Arashiyama then says, looking abashed. “I haven’t introduced myself. Sorry, I’m Arashiyama Jun, nice to meet you!”

Kie has to bite his tongue to exert his purported self-control, stopping himself from blurting out  _ yeah, I  _ know. _ Anybody would know.  _

Because like, anybody  _ would _ know. It’s cute that Arashiyama thinks he needs introducing anywhere on this campus. Kie has no idea whether this apparent humbleness, or obliviousness, is genuine or not, but Arashiyama makes it seem like it is. Still, nobody can be  _ that _ unaware, right?

Not like that’s any of Kie’s business, really, so he puts an end to his speculation. With a smile at Arashiyama, he says “Nice to meet you. I’m Chenzira Kie,”

Arashiyama doesn’t blink an eye at the non-Japanese last name, which isn’t surprising, but still pretty gratifying. He just smiles right back at Kie and puts out his hand again, because he’s apparently the kind of person who shakes hands with new people. Kie has to face the terrifying prospect of holding Arashiyama’s hand for the second time in five minutes, which is far too frequent for his liking, but he manages to make it through.

And by make it through, he means avoid looking at Arashiyama or at their hands when they touch again. Which isn’t really making it through at all. Details.

It’s both too soon and not soon enough when Arashiyama’s hand leaves Kie’s grip again, and Kie can force himself to look him in the eye. 

This entire interaction feels a little surreal; the shit that Kie’s friends would swear up and down happened to them at the laundromat at two am that Kie would choose to not believe, not something that would happen to Kie while he was rushing to his twelve pm law class.

Ah. Speaking of which.

“Oh god,” Kie says, realization and dread flooding him, “I’m going to be late to class,”

The words make something alight in Arashiyama’s eyes; it takes a moment for Kie to place it as the same dread he’s currently feeling, because it just looks so different. Does fear look that graceful on Kie’s features?

He really doubts it.

Arashiyama says “Shit, me too,” sounding like any of Kie’s stressed and tired friends, like a normal university student, like somebody who had done a nice thing for somebody else in the hallways and nothing more. 

This knowledge is what gives Kie the boost to say “Well, see you around, then?”

Arashiyama smiles at him, eyes sparkling, teeth shining, dimples creasing, the whole shebang. He says “See you around, Chenzira-kun. Be careful on those stairs,”. With that final tease, he turns and heads off into the crowd, leaving Kie to watch him go.

So Kie watches, wasting time he can’t afford to waste. He watches Arashiyama Jun go, a mini-sun weaving through the crowds, and realizes that he might be a little bit smitten. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first ch of this: lighthearted fun scenario with gay panic  
> second ch: doubled wordcount description of an impending breakdown
> 
> lmao. you guys thought this was gonna be a shitposty/lighthearted fic. lmaooo.
> 
> ch includes a panic attack (not very prolonged and mostly gotten under control before it could get too severe. general thoughts of self deprecation and loathing. take care of yourselves kids. trauma always manifests n catches up 2 u and it hits u hard. get sum help if u need.

Rukina’s having a shit day.

Not as bad as yesterday, oh no, not by far. Yesterday had been the invasion, and _that_ had been shit, utterly terrifying and breath-stealing shit. It hurts to remember.

HQ had been broken into.

She had spent most of the incident curled into a ball while cowering in a closet somewhere, praying with every breath she had that the big bad wouldn’t find her.

Well, prayers answered, she supposes. She lives another day, to come into work for another shift, because it wasn’t _her_ office that was destroyed. No, apparently, she’s just fine. The entire place is emptier today, absences from people who—who got—who didn’t—…

She breathes out hard, and pushes the thought out of her mind. She watches the news. She had seen the casualty count. She knows that most, nearly all, of the empty seats today are probably from people who requested some time off, even if she can’t quite compute it. She would’ve probably done the same, too, if the thought of being at home, alone in her apartment, didn’t make her so anxious her hands start to shake.

Jesus, she doesn’t know why she hasn’t moved out of this city yet. She doesn’t know why _everybody_ hasn’t moved out of this city yet. Her hands have started to shake again, and at least she’s among people this time. Among people equipped to deal with alien attacks. In a building that’s been built to withstand alien attacks.

Well. _Theoretically._

That has been unfortunately disproved, and she doesn’t know how to feel about the promises to _rebuild stronger_ that everybody’s been given. She doesn’t know about much anymore. It’s hard to remember what she felt when she first started, the determined idealist who wanted to make a difference, even in the smallest of ways. It never occurred to her, back then, that _the smallest of ways_ still involved stepping into the line of fire.

 _The joys of working at Border,_ she thinks. There’s no real precedent, or contingency plan, for _aliens._ She guesses it’s not something she should be particularly surprised by, because Border definitely isn’t topping any rankings for employee safety, but still.

But still.

Her hands shake.

She’s having a shit day. So she feels like she can’t be blamed when, while walking the hallways, eyes down because it’s easier to stare at the tiles than stare at how _empty_ everything in the building looks, she bumps into somebody.

She’s got a pile of papers in her arms and she’s distracted enough that when her shoulder catches against the oncoming person’s, they go flying. She manages to catch herself, but it only serves to give her a really great vantage point for watching the way her work scatters across the floor.

Kuriyama Rukina, meet even _shittier_ day.

Hands clenched and eyes shut tight so that she doesn’t do anything stupid, like cry, she turns away.

She turns away from the mess that her papers have made on the floor, because she can’t bear to look at it. She feels like she’s on the verge of snapping and buying plane tickets to Tokyo. Surely they don’t deal with this bullshit.

She turns, and she decides to focus all of the anxiety and panic and frustration that’s been steadily building inside of her and unleash it on whatever _idiot_ had decided to crash into her and make her shit day even worse.

“Is it so much,” she snaps, brimming with fear and hurt and fatigue, feeling well and truly _fed up_ with today, “to ask you to watch where you’re going?”. She barely recognizes her voice, it’s so venomous.

There’s silence.

She keeps her eyes closed because she really doesn’t think she can look at the interior of Border right now without losing her goddamn mind. She hears the other person take in a deep breath.

“I am so sorry,” a very soft, very regretful, and very recognizable voice says. “I should’ve been watching where I was going.”

Heart caught in her stupid impulsive mouth, Rukina opens her eyes. What she sees is—what she can’t believe she’s seeing is—

Arashiyama Jun leaning down to gather up her papers, a determined set to his jaw, and something unhappy in his eyes. The Arashiyama Jun. It’s definitely him. Everybody in Border knows who he is, knows his face, knows his voice. She had just snapped at the face of Border.

It’s always something she’s been aware of, a sickly anxiety she can’t get rid of, but she never thought she would come face to face with her impending unemployment so starkly.

“Oh god,” she says, her voice now sounding a million miles away and weaker than the coffee they serve at Border morning teas. “I am so sorry for how I spoke to you,” she gasps.

From where he’s kneeling, Arashiyama turns to look back at her. There’s a worn but genuine smile on his face and he shakes his head. She doesn’t know why he looks so kind. So serene.

“You were completely in your right,” he says, confident and gentle all in one. “I was distracted, and I ended up hurting you as a result. I’m sorry,”

The obvious sincerity dripping off of his tone almost makes his apology harder to stomach. It’s not like Rukina hadn’t been distracted too. Their collision had been a mutual mistake, except Rukina had flown off her rocker and almost yelled at Arashiyama, and now he’s probably going to go and report it to the higher-ups so that she can get her justice and lose her job. It’s over. It’s so over.

Except she doesn’t actually think that. From what she’s seen and been told, Arashiyama Jun is nothing but pleasant, lovely, dependable. She really doubts that he’ll rat her in because of an accident in the hallway, but she’s so tired, and so stressed, and so scared. All of this twists her rationality, until all she can concentrate on is the way her hands shake, shake and shake. She’s going to lose her job. Her life on the line one day, her job on the line the next. Shit days can only be followed by shit days. She feels like she’s tipping over, spiralling, crumbling. He’s going to turn her in and after almost getting killed she’s going to get fired and it’s _over,_ it’s over.

To her absolute horror and mortification, she starts to cry.

Arashiyama starts at the sound of a choked sob, and instead of ignoring it and continuing on like she really, really, _really_ hopes he does, he turns around with wide eyes. He’s holding her pile of papers in his hands. They’re perfectly organized.

The sight makes her cry harder.

She doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t even know what she is thinking; she feels suddenly and overwhelmingly awful for thinking badly of Arashiyama, because it’s obvious he’s just trying to help, but she’s also rooted still in terror at the thought of her life falling apart because she hadn’t been paying attention while walking. She can’t even bring herself to move and cover her face or wipe away the tears, so everything, all her shame and anxiety and fear, it _all_ pours out, ugly and uninhibited.

Arashiyama leaves aside the papers, a perfect impeccable pile, and stands up. There is a heartbreakingly kind look on his face, and she sobs again, wishing he would just look away. She finds the presence of mind to screw her eyes shut, which at least protects her somewhat from the unbearable sympathy on Arashiyama’s features. He’s still there, of course. She doubts he’s going to leave her now that she’s gone and made a fool of herself, no matter how much she wants him to.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she hears him say, voice pitched low and steady. He sounds like he stepped closer again, and she tries not to flinch. He speaks again. “I’ve got a handkerchief here. I’m gonna lend it to you, okay?”

She’s gasping and hiccuping, she realizes, making pathetic crying sounds like the pathetic, pathetic person she is. She doesn’t even feel like herself; there’s a distance between her and everything she does now. It’s not her face running sticky with the texture of tears. It’s not her voice choking and hiccuping. It’s not her about to get found out about to die about to get fired about to throw up about to—

“Hey,” the voice says, a little more urgent this time, “Kuriyama-san.” A quiet part of her thinks _nametag_ . A louder part thinks _singled out going to get reported going to be killed_ , and she gasps. The voice does not stop, or go away. It sounds again, saying “Kuriyama-san. I’m going to give you my handkerchief. I’ll hand it to you, in your left hand, okay?”

Her hands are shaking. She can’t bring herself to respond, doesn’t even know if she wants that or doesn’t.

When she feels the fabric brushing against her fingertips, she surprises herself by clutching on immediately. She is overtaken by the urge to grasp onto something, anything, as long as it’s there. The soft material grounds her; she feels it against her skin, feels the way it folds, it slopes, it spills. For the first time in what feels like minutes, she manages to inhale.

“There we go,” the voice says, gentle. “Breathe in. Breathe out again. I’m going to count for you, okay?”

She thinks she wants to nod. She doesn’t do it, but it’s the first clear thought she’s had, her unannounced agreement with that statement, and in the midst of all her panic, she clings to it. The voice— _Arashiyama,_ a part of her registers, starts to count. It’s easy to follow, familiar and reassuring, and she finds herself sinking to her knees and following along. _Breathe in, two, three, four,_ she thinks. _Breathe out, two, three, four._ She feels better, curled up over her knees. More grounded. There’s less going on so close to the floor; it feels like there is only her, her breaths, and her companion’s quiet and steady guidance.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Eventually, she comes to awareness again. She can feel her hands shaking, but she can feel the soft silk against her palms in even sharper clarity.. She feels the way the tears and snot run down her face, and then she feels the quiet relief that comes when she wipes them away.

She hears “You’re okay?” and the earnest, uncertain tone of the words throws her a little. She—she doesn’t _know_. She can see now in her comedown that she had been having a panic attack, as rare as they are now that she’s supposedly an adult. The feeling is just as bad as it had been when she had been an insecure teenager, and it momentarily overwhelms her: the awful, sickly shame of being reduced to a shivering mess in a Border corridor, the violent despair of realizing that maybe she hadn’t gotten any better at all.

Then, she takes in a deep breath, clenching her unsteady hands into fists, because goddamn, she _is_ an adult and she _can_ and _will_ pull it together.

She opens her eyes.

Arashiyama is crouched, a few feet away from her, mirroring her position with his eyes wide. Seeing him at this level, both of them hugging their knees on the ground, makes everything else fall away. The veneer of the _face of Border_ , of _invasion hero_ , of _A-rank captain_ … it all falls away.

She’s left staring at a boy, a teenager, younger than her and braver than her and kinder than her by far. She thinks about him talking her through a panic attack, being able to talk her _successfully_ through a panic attack, and after the bite of shame and self-loathing, what she’s left with is gratitude. A quiet awe. She tries to remember his age—eighteen, nineteen? _Young._ She wonders where he learnt to do that. At nineteen, she could barely talk herself out of a panic attack, much less anybody else.

Her scrutiny draws her further and further out of that awful, disconcerting space that she had just been in. She looks down at the handkerchief in her hand, now far worse for wear, and breathes out. Focuses. It’s a light red. There’s a small embroidery in the corner, a little homemade stamp of love. It’s in the figure of a dog, and although it’s very simple and a little uneven, she thinks it’s gorgeous.

She thumbs over the stitching, feeling the way it smooths out under her touch.

Arashiyama, following her movements, says “That’s my dog, Koro.”

Rukina feels some of the tension drain out of her. She doesn’t want to talk about what just happened, not yet, so the change of pace is welcomed.

“You did this?” she asks quietly, eyes still on the handkerchief. Her voice is hoarse.

“Yeah,” Arashiyama replies. “When I was… thirteen, I think? It’s not great but…”

In the silence he leaves behind his words, the fondness and love for this six-year-old treasure implicit in it, she finds the courage to say “It’s lovely,”.

There’s no response. She’s not looking to see, but she can just tell that he’s grinning.

It’s strangely reassuring, knowing that somehow, Arashiyama is implacable and unshakeable. She feels fragile all over, like she’ll snap and shatter if somebody, or she, says the wrong thing, but with Arashiyama around—

With the knowledge that no matter what, he’ll respond with genuinity, with kindness—

It stabilizes her.

She takes in a deep breath, and then another, and then another. She keeps doing it. She comes back to herself, remembers herself.

Mustering up the strength to look up at Arashiyama, she finds that he’s shuffled a little closer. Instead of making her want to flinch back, the proximity—though it’s still a comfortable distance—doesn’t feel awful. She wants to take it as a show of solidarity, so she does.

His expression is open, gaze gentle and a soft smile on his face. Ridiculously, she almost feels safer just looking at his expression, knowing that he won’t hurt her.

She says, pushing past the scratchiness of her tone, “Sorry you had to deal with that,”

Arashiyama shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. You can thank me, but don’t apologize. We all have moments where it all catches up to us.”

He sounds like he knows the fact well, intimately so. It isn’t surprising, considering who he is; nineteen-year-old with the weight of a quasi-military movement on his shoulders, but it’s still good, gratifying, to hear.

She tries again, and her voice comes a little stronger this time. “Alright. Thank you, then. You… you really helped me.”

Arashiyama hesitates, looks for a few seconds like he’s about to say something heavier than she can handle at the current time. The moment passes; it flickers across his face like a bird against the sun, and then he softens and says “Well, I could hardly have left you to cry on your own. That goes against my image,”

The joking helps her relax even further, the tightly wound roll of negativity that feels like a vice inside of her unravelling a bit.

“Of course,” she replies, albeit not as enthusiastic or lively, but she's trying. “There goes the Face of Border, off to save kittens from trees and employees from panic attacks.”

He laughs. It’s a warm, charming sound and it provokes a responding smile, a huff of air, from her too. When he’s done, he makes eye contact with her again, and this time she can just quite handle being put under that warm gaze. She doesn’t feel like she’s going to shake out of her skin anymore.

She says, quiet, a pin-drop confession, “It’s been a rough few days.”

Arashiyama sighs, and it seems to contain the patience of the earth and the weight of the world. He says “Sure has, hasn’t it? Most people didn’t come in today,”

It’s almost delightful, how Arashiyama dances with his words, the gentle prodding that seems leagues away from overstepping. She can tell that in that short sentence, he makes a statement of the fact that _he’s_ here, at Border, one invasion and its aftermath later. He also makes a question of her presence at Border, one that surprisingly, she’s okay to answer.

She says “I live by myself. I didn’t… I didn’t want to be alone, today.”

Arashiyama nods, the understanding lighting up his gaze. She hopes he doesn’t push, and sure enough, he doesn’t. He’s created a very defined, but very gentle distance between them, and it makes her feel all the more comfortable. He’s eerily good at this, but she’s not going to complain. It’s the only thing keeping her grounded at the moment.

After a moment of silence, he says “If it’s not pushing it,” which Rukina almost scoffs at, because this entire interaction he has not come even remotely _close_ to pushing it, “if you wanted to, you could come do your work in my operations room today. Most of my unit is here, and we’re all pretty occupied, so it won’t be too loud. But, it's company. I… I imagine your office is pretty quiet right now.”

Inexplicably, tears sting at Rukina’s eyes. It’s ridiculous, but the almost swamping kindness, care, _consideration_ , emanating from that statement makes her throat clog up. It’s exactly what she needs to hear, what she needs after the chilling silence of her office, and she thinks she should say no but has no idea how to.

So instead, she nods. Wipes at her eyes with the handkerchief again. Takes in a breath.

Arashiyama smiles at her, bright and comforting and genuinely _happy_ , and he rises up. He’s got all of her paperwork cradled in one arm, and with the other, he reaches out. He says “I’ll show you the way?”

Rukina stares up at the proffered hand, at the person profferring the hand, at the mere teenager who pulled her from the verge of breakdown and then stopped her from re-spiralling and who is now offering her a solution to a part of her anguish. She’s suddenly, overpoweringly glad she had bumped into him today.

She reaches up a hand to take his, and she realizes that it’s not shaking at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just think he (arashiyama) is neat!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arashiyama jun loving hours are ALWAYS

The alarm bells start ringing in Chiaki’s head as soon as Arashiyama walks through the door. 

Which sounds mean, now that he thinks about it. He swears he’s saying it with love and care. Loving and caring alarm bells, they are.

Chiaki tries hard to pay attention to the lecture after that, he does, but it’s like watching a slow-moving car wreck; there’s nothing quite as riveting as the inevitable.

So when Arashiyama’s head meets his desk, around twenty minutes into the lecture, he’s the first one to see. It’s about the second-fastest time that it’s happened, according to his vague recollections.

He breathes in deeply and slowly, trying to stop the laugh that he can feel forming in his chest. He doesn’t want to wake Arashiyama up, and definitely doesn’t want to draw the lecturer’s attention. Luckily, he’s had a decent amount of practice with this; this isn’t the first time, and he really doubts it’s gonna be the last time. 

When he feels less like he might burst out in hysterics in the middle of the lecture, he moves on to the next part of his routine.

In a controlled and subtle turn, he looks at the person on the right side of him. Michiru doesn’t look like she’s faring well either in the attention department— _ problem students _ , the three of them are—but she snaps to attention when he nudges her.

She turns to look at him, eyebrows creased in confusion, and he jerks his head to the desk on his left. She rises a little in her seat, peering over his shoulder, and then immediately claps both her hands over her mouth.

He can still make out the muffled sounds of laughter, if the amusement in her eyes doesn’t clue him in enough already, and he grins at her.

He and Michiru have been friends for years now. They went through high school together, joined university with each other in tow, moved out together. To anybody else, it probably seems like they’re a couple—Chiaki suspects that’s why nobody’s ever tried to join their little group before. 

While they are definitely  _ not  _ dating, they’ve always been content with only each other’s company anyway. It’s never bothered him that their closeness has warded people away, and if it bothers Michiru, she doesn’t act like it.

The exclusivity is almost nice, in a way. He likes knowing that he’s number one for her, and likewise vice versa.

However, this feeling didn’t stop them from immediately adopting Arashiyama Jun as soon as he got placed in their design group.

It’s wild to think about, really, because anybody their age knows who Arashiyama is and what he does, and those things  _ definitely _ ward people away from him. They almost warded Chiaki and Michiru away, if not for the binding chains commonly referred to as  _ group work _ . 

Chiaki still thinks group projects are absolute bullshit, but he guesses that this time, it was a blessing in disguise.

He remembers Arashiyama showing up to their first meeting, nine am sharp, full of cheer and enthusiasm to make up for the fact that Chiaki and Michiru had none of either. They talked about their ideas, hashed out their plans, assigned their group roles; Chiaki was pleased to discover that Arashiyama is as pleasant as his T.V. appearances make him seem. It made the process so much easier, and all of his initial concerns about being grouped with Arashiyama vanished within five minutes. 

And then Chiaki, around twenty minutes into his research and bored out of his mind, had turned around to find Arashiyama slumped at his desk, fast asleep, with a perfectly typed up timeline and analysis of the Art Deco movement up on his screen.

Utterly speechless, he turned to Michiru and poked her in the shoulder hard. Michiru had whirled around, already on the offensive and ready to poke him in turn, and stopped dead at the sight of Arashiyama too.

It was just  _ surreal. _

All Chiaki knew of Arashiyama, really, was that he spearheaded Border forces and appeared on television and smiled like the sun. He wasn’t prepared to find out that Arashiyama had the ability to nap literally everywhere and had no hesitation in abusing that ability.

By now, it’s endearing, if a little ridiculous. He and Michiru have taken to taking pictures of Arashiyama mid-nap and posting them in their group chat, recording each time with relish. They were afraid at first that Arashiyama would take offence, but Arashiyama proved to be as pleasant and easygoing as he always seemed in that instance too. 

Actually, Arashiyama says that sometimes his boyfriend picks the nicer pictures and makes them his lock screen, which is so disgustingly cute that Chiaki almost feels affronted at being involved in it.

His phone goes off, and Chiaki looks to see a notification from the group chat; it’s Michiru documenting Arashiyama’s latest foray into unconsciousness, with the caption  _ observing the marvellous arashiyama jun in his natural state of being. _

He snorts and has to cover his mouth, lest he blows their cover and brings the wrath of the lecturer down on them. As much as they poke fun, neither he or Michiru want Arashiyama to be disturbed. It’s easier to think about it as a cute little quirk, a bad habit that the shining star of Mikado can’t quite get rid of, but Chiaki does wonder, and he knows Michiru does too. 

Chiaki wonders, when he’s settling down for the night and flicking through his messages idly, whether Arashiyama is still out and about. He wonders what kind of schedule you must have, to develop the ability to sleep at the drop of a hat. 

It’s no secret that Arashiyama Unit are ridiculously busy. There’s always a new interview to have, or an event to attend, or a statement to be made; there are periods where Arashiyama skips almost as many days as he comes to uni. Between that and homework, and then regular Border patrolling, Chiaki really can’t blame Arashiyama for catching up on sleep when he can. Chiaki isn’t even sure that the guy  _ gets  _ to sleep at night, because holy shit. That’s a lot of work. That’s a lot of fucking work.

It’s impressive and terrifying. And that’s not even mentioning how Arashiyama finds it in him to be a genuinely good person. Chiaki’s only obligation at the current moment is going to university, and most days he still finds himself bitter at the world for some reason or another. It’s honestly too much with how impressive and terrifying it is.

Chiaki smiles to himself, shaking his head a little. Michiru catches the motion in her peripheral, and she turns to him, smiling that same kind of almost-rueful smile. He knows that she’s ruminated on the Arashiyama Jun Napping Situation as well, even if they’ve never talked about it. They’ve already made the unspoken agreement to defend Arashiyama’s right to nap wherever he pleases with their lives. There’s not much else to say.

The rest of the lecture passes in a blur. Around the 35 minute mark, Chiaki gives up on paying attention and starts messaging Michiru, which in turn prompts her to give up as well. It’s bad but, well, Chiaki’s never claimed to be otherwise. Arashiyama, asleep as he is, can still probably carry all of the good student cred for the three of them.

Said sleeping beauty wakes up ten minutes before the lecture ends, which resolves the battle that Chiaki and Michiru had been waging over text over who gets to rouse him at the end of class. Arashiyama purports that he’s a morning person, and Chiaki finds it hard to refute that, but there are always a few seconds when he first wakes up where Arashiyama is completely out of it. 

It’s almost sweet, seeing the sleepy confusion in Arashiyama’s expression as he turns his head on the desk, taking in his surroundings; likewise, it’s almost comical, the way Arashiyama looks when he realizes what had happened.

He’s already glaring at Chiaki and Michiru in reproach, which only makes them grin more. Instead of saying anything aloud, Arashiyama pulls out his phone and makes for the group chat, making a face at the picture sent earlier.

**explicit planning**

**[10:53] THE ARASHIYAMA JUN** ****  
Guys!!!   
Stop letting me do this! I basically missed all the lecture :(

**[10:53] THE MATSUI MICHIRU** ****  
if it helps   
i basically missed all the lecture 2 and i was awake the entire ass time

**[10:53] me** **  
** lol same

_ THE MATSUI MICHIRU HAS CHANGED THE GROUP CHAT NAME TO  _ **problem students**

**[10:54] THE ARASHIYAMA JUN** **  
** Who let us all be put in the same group...

**[10:54] me** ****  
ikr   
arajun we wouldve been so much better off w/o michi’s dead weight

**[10:54] THE MATSUI MICHIRU** **  
** oh go to hell

**[10:55] me** **  
** im already here in graphic design 2 arent i xx

That proves apparently too much and both Arashiyama and Michiru burst out laughing before they can stop it. Chiaki’s a little horrified, because hello,  _ still in lecture, what the fuck guys, _ and a little proud; he’s a comedic genius, obviously.

The lecturer looks over at them, sharp and disapproving. With narrowed eyes, he says “Is there a problem, students?”

Arashiyama pulls himself back together the quickest. Michiru is still dissolved in laughter and muffling it in her jacket sleeve, but Arashiyama is already pulling on that charming smile and saying “Nothing, professor, we’re sorry. We were just caught off guard for a moment,”

The professor still looks suspicious, but Arashiyama’s charm does its job, and after a few seconds he says “Alright then. Please try to pay attention for these last few minutes,”

“Of course,” Arashiyama replies, sitting up straighter in his seat. There’s a crease on his face, from where he had been resting on his book, and it almost makes Chiaki burst into giggles again.

As soon as the professor turns back to the whiteboard, Arashiyama looks over at him, a conspiratory spark in his eyes. Chiaki grins back at him, shooting a thumbs up.

**problem students**

**[10:57] me** **  
** nice save

**[10:57] THE MATSUI MICHIRU** **  
** when he uses his allure powers for evil <3

**[10:57] THE ARASHIYAMA JUN** **  
** I’m starting to think you guys are just bad influences

**[10:57] me** **  
** only starting to think? lmao

With the conversation continuing, the last few minutes of class pass quickly, and soon they’re all packing up their stuff and racing to leave. The only bad thing about sitting at the back is that it’s further away from the door, but with Michiru’s uncompromising elbows and lack of respect for personal space, they push their way through the crowds quickly enough.

Finally outside in the fresh air, Chiaki stretches his arms out, exhaling in pleasure.

Arashiyama, who usually runs off right after class, is still walking with them. Coming up on his other side, Michiru nudges Arashiyama in the shoulder and says “Hey, sleeping beauty, you wanna come grab coffee with us?”

Chiaki had actually been meaning to go to the library after this class: he had plans for taking after Arashiyama’s excellent example and finding somewhere to nap, but he supposes he’s happy enough with this turn of events. Michiru is usually the one calling the shots anyway, so it’s not really anything he’s unused to.

Arashiyama hesitates, his hand straying over the pocket that held his phone. It’s enough that he’s hesitating, honestly; Chiaki can’t count the times that Arashiyama has turned down their requests to hang out after work because of some scheduling error. 

Sensing an opportunity, he butts in with “You look like you need the wake-up,”, teasing.

Arashiyama deliberates for a few seconds more, but then he grins at them both. “Well,” he says, tone a strange mix of excitement and nervousness, “I have nothing to argue against that.”

Michiru whoops, throwing an arm around Arashiyama and pumping the air with the other.

“Fuck yeah!” she cheers, “drinks are on me, guys!”

Chiaki rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning too. He decides to join in on the fun and puts his arm around Arashiyama as well, sandwiching him nicely between them. It probably looks ridiculous to any stranger, the sight of Arashiyama Jun being doted on by two random university students, but Chiaki likes to think their friendship has evolved long past the topic of Arashiyama’s celebrity.

He’s proven right when Arashiyama brings both of his arms up and wraps them around his and Michiru’s waists, pulling them in neatly.

“No, Matsui, it’s alright. I’ll pay,” Arashiyama says, beaming at them.

Michiru whoops again, even louder this time. 

“God bless Border A-rank salaries,” Chiaki says with a wistful sigh. 

Arashiyama laughs at that, the sound as bright as the sun above them. Between the blue skies, the excellent banter and the future coffee, Chiaki can’t help thinking that he has the greatest friendship group on the campus.

And, well, to be fair, it  _ does _ have a rich minor celebrity. Of course he has the greatest friendship group. There’s no fucking competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get it... explicit planning bc like... graphic design....


End file.
